The Reichenbach Rise
by nopeway
Summary: "Three years, Sherlock, three years without you! You can't ever relate to that!" I may change it to M because smut I'm not sure yet. Yet.


**The Reichenbach Rise**

**Chapter One: **_**The Text**_

_Meet me at 9 pm at the park near Baker Street._

_Mycroft_

That was the text John had gotten in the morning. It had been three long years since he'd watch his friend in his final moments. Three years filled with remorse, grief, pain, anger, and depression for John Watson. Breaking things, going to therapy, yelling at people, and finally staying in isolation. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

The fact destroyed him.

He learned to move on though. He had a girlfriend for about a year before they called a quits because she was leaving the country and John didn't want to go.

He began to text Mycroft back. He was still so angry at him for what he had done to the now dead consulting detective.

_What no camera thing or surprise helicopter this time?_

_JW_

John texted back, rubbing his eyes after it had sent. Another sleepless night filled with nightmares about the war and Sherlock. Memories, really. Memories twisted and contorted into much more abhorrent images only his nightmares could conjure up.

_I decided to do something a bit different, Doctor Watson._

_Mycroft_

He just set the phone down to let the silence fill the hole that had been there for three years. He was back at that flat he had before he moved in with Sherlock. He could never go back to Baker Street, staring at the empty chair that used to be so full of life.

You could hear almost nothing in the silence of the flat. Nothing, no movement, no talking, or any ticking went on. Just emptiness filled the space; and emptiness that felt like a never ending abyss.

xxx

"He thinks it's me."

"Of course he does. He's convinced I'm dead."

"You know he's limping again."

"I know. I saw him in while in another disguise."

"But do you know why he is limping again, brother?"

"Another traumatic accident, I assume."

"Oh you know it's because of you, Sherlock, quit pretending like you don't. He was unable to function for about three months and was hospitalized twice because of your 'death'."

Sherlock's eyes just flickered to the ground before he uttered, "Why didn't you tell me that?"

"You were off in America trying to hide from some gangsters. How could I?"

Sherlock's eyes rolled, he was getting quite infuriated by his brother once again, "I came here for you to text John not to be lectured on how much pain and suffering I caused him."

Mycroft sighed. They were sitting in front of each other in 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was in his chair while Mycroft was in John's old chair. Mrs. Hudson had just found out about Sherlock being alive a few hours ago, causing her to cry and hug Sherlock for 30 minutes straight. Mrs. Hudson, a mother to Sherlock. Perhaps jumping off of that building did have some perks for him.

"Just don't not show up, brother, you –"

"Wait a second why I do that, Mycroft?" Sherlock almost spat the question at him.

"You're afraid of how he will react to seeing you for the first time in three years. How he will feel knowing you have committed the ultimate betrayal: Faking your death."

"It was not betrayal it was protection."

"Yes it was, Sherlock."

"Friends _protect_ people, Mycroft, and I damn well protected John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade that day and for three years."

"Friends protect people? You never say anything like – oh. _He _said it, didn't he?" Mycroft's signature grin appeared on his face as he finished the sentence. He was somewhat happy that he learned such a _caring_ thing from John Watson. Also, even if it was going undetected for Sherlock, it meant he did care.

"It was the last thing he said to me face to face, and, as much as I hate to admit it, he was right," Sherlock replied, folding his arms and almost scowling like a child, "Are you going to do that pardon, by the way?"

"Of course."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion, "Of course?"

"I owe you a lot, especially for getting both Moriarty and his Sebastian off the streets of England. Now the public safety won't be in _as_ much danger."

"Oh so you _do_ care about the citizens?"

"They're the ones who elected me."

"But you care about them anyway, it's obvious. Every time you went to John and me for a case it always went back to the public safety."

"And _you_ care about their safety, too, Sherlock."

His chin tilted up ever so slightly, tensing up at Mycroft's words. Mycroft almost mirrored him with the sign of distress: Folded arms, furrowed brows, except his chin was tilted down, not up.

xxx

John walked, really limped, the busy streets of London. He passed by 221B Baker Street, feeling a pang of sorrow and anger in his heart. It made him somewhat angry that Sherlock just left him all alone. He was so alone when they met, and he filled the loneliness with joy and no boredom. Sherlock Holmes was purely brilliant, and John could never forget the hole he filled.

Mycroft was standing under a light, umbrella in hand like always. He emitted his signature smile upon seeing John while John just sighed heavily, his jaw clenched upon the sight.

"Hello, Doctor Watson. It's been a long time," Mycroft said, nodding once when John was close enough.

"I had hoped for longer," John said, straightening himself up while clutching the cane tightly.

"Of course you did, but I have someone you would like to see."

"Who could you possibly want me to see so badly?"

"He's right there, unfortunately smoking, but he was a bit nervous for this reuniting," Mycroft spoke, pointing the umbrella at the dark, tall figure under a street light. Puffs of smoke escaped his mouth as he breathed out, and he had a new coat and gloves, but the same messy brown hair was the same.

John just stood there, in complete shock.

Nervousness seeped through him, and also fear. Sherlock Holmes was afraid, but this fear was not induced by a drug this time.

He, like always, pushed his emotions aside and thought of cases. Solved and unsolved, they were thrilling to think about. His eyes darted to the right to see John just standing there in complete shock. He dropped the cigarette on the ground to smash it out with his shoe.

He turned to John, eyes darting to catch every detail of his best friend, or was he his best friend now? Is he too angry to speak to Sherlock or to ever see him again?

He thought of something that might cause John to move, and he said it.

"Remember the last thing you said to me face to face? Friends protect people?" Sherlock paused, waiting for any sort of reaction. He couldn't necessarily see his eyes since he was far from such viewpoint in that position. "Well, what I did on that day was protect my friends: Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and _you_, John."

"I thought you were –"

"He had to, John; he had to commit the ultimate betrayal against all of his friends to ensure their safety. Pretty heroic thing, if heroes existed."

John, rigid and unmoving as ever, began to move towards _him;_ his consulting detective who died in front of him. Dead, he was dead but now he was standing in front of him alive as ever. As he came closer the shadows beneath Sherlock's eyes were more defined, but he was still in that position he almost always stood in. Standing straight, hands holding each other behind his back, eyes slightly squinted, and a mask to hide all of his emotions on.

"You have questions, obviously, and so do I. Perhaps we should go to our old flat or a restaurant, yes?"

"Just like you to ask someone out to dinner after pretending to be dead," John said rigidly to Sherlock. Mycroft just smiled, going to his car to leave them alone.

"What should I say, then?"

"Maybe why did you do and how, Sherlock," there was a bitterness to John's tone of voice.

"That's why I invited you to dinner, John," Sherlock said, emitting a slight smile before it suddenly disappeared.

"Oh," John just replied, obviously dumbfounded.

"Let's go, then."

xxx

They sat in the restaurant together like old times, but not quite. There was an obvious tension between them, as if it was a piece of thin ice, ready to break when one little thing went wrong.

"So how about I tell you _why_ I did it."

"Alright, explain, then."

"Moriarty, as I predicted, said that he was going to kill the only friends I had in the world: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and _you_, if I did not jump, though. Three bullets, three gunmen ready to kill you three if I did not jump."

John just froze for a moment, unsure as to what to say next, and then he spoke, "So you are somewhat of a hero, like Mycroft said."

"I am nowhere near a hero, John; I will never be near one. I have, for _three_ _years_, left you and everyone who actually cared about me alone while I hid and killed many people. How is that heroic? I am not admired I am _hated_, John Watson, and I am quite surprised you don't hate me, too."

"Well you are a bit of a tit to everyone," John said, causing Sherlock to chuckle. The tension melted away ever so slightly when John joined in on the chuckling.

"Ah, John, your insults never fail to amuse me. We can speak more about this, but I think people are beginning to recognize me, so, I must go to 221B Baker Street," Sherlock said, getting up from his chair as a woman began to point and whisper about him. "Would you like to come with me or do you want to be flatmates at all?"

"I do, I just need some time, that's all."

"Next week?"

"Sure," John said a bit too quickly.

"Right then, I'll text you, John. You won't recognize the number, though, I changed it."

"Alright," John said, and he was gone.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

That's when the infuriation began deep inside John. A spark awaiting to become an inferno of pure blinding anger towards Sherlock Holmes and his 'absence'.


End file.
